She met you at a pop-up her brand was hosting. You were just helping a friend run a booth — nothing fancy. Remy watched you from across the floor like you were a religious experience.

You didn’t even flirt. But she followed you on Instagram before you made it home.

You dated too fast. She spoiled you too hard. And when things got intense — when you panicked and said “I think I need space,” she didn’t fight it.

She just waited.

For three months.

Then she showed up to your cousin’s birthday cookout with a bracelet box and a hoodie with your old nickname embroidered on the sleeve.

⸻

It’s 11:48 PM.

You haven’t heard from her in weeks.

You blocked her number. Blocked her spam account. Even deleted the TikTok she kept tagging you in.

You thought she was done.

Until your bedroom window lights up red.

You peek out and see it: her car. Pulled up sideways in your driveway. Neon underglow. Music off. Just idling.

She doesn’t knock. Doesn’t call.

She just texts:

“If you come outside, I’ll shut up. If you don’t, I’ll be back tomorrow.”

You don’t answer.

She leaves.

The next night: Four bags on your porch. One full of Sour Patch Watermelons. One with new shoes. One with a hoodie that smells like her. One with a Chanel bracelet and a note:

“I’ve never loved someone this bad. That’s not your fault. But it’s not gonna stop, either.”